The Hotel

Shane Nickerson over at NickerBlog uploaded a scan of a picture he's had for a while. It's a really odd looking sepia tone photo of two men in what appears to be a hotel.

Well, Wil Wheaton issued a challenge. Come up with a short story using the photograph as inspiration.

And so I did, except the original draft was over 1,000 words long. The rules are keep it under 300. I managed to do it. But, I'm not as happy with the rewrite as I am with the original. The original sets the mood and atmosphere so much more.

Well, here it is.

"The Hotel"
"How much further?" I ask myself wishing that someone could answer my question. Sadly, the only reply I get is the bead of sweat falling off my forehead and hitting the pavement. I stop to look around, get my bearings. I'm here. The air is hard to breath. I walk up to the front desk and ring the bell.

An old man waddles out the door behind the counter. "What can I do you for?" He asks.

"One room, one night," I answer him.

"No problem," He says.

I don't know why, but he gives me the heebie-jeebies.

"Do you need assistance with your luggage?" As he taps the bell.

A gangly man, mid thirties walks out. He's worked all his life and has nothing to show for it except his ill-fitting suit, probably used his first paycheck to buy it. The high life, new suit, shave and a haircut. It is in immaculate condition. I can't say the same for his glasses, they are so scratched I can't make out the color of his eyes.

I hand him my bag and two quarters and say "Maybe this'll help you get a new pair of glasses."

"Gee, thanks Mister," He says.

"Room 237," The Old Man says and vanishes.

I follow Gangly upstairs. he opens up the door and sets my bag down and walks out. The night stand has a picture of Gangly and the Clerk. Why do I feel so dizzy. I need to lay down. As I fall asleep I hear people from the next room talking.

"Doctor!" a woman shouts "We're losing him!"

My eyes can no longer stay open, I feel myself float off in to sleep.

I feel like I'll never leave this place.

----------

Well, I hope you like it. I decided to include the full story after the jump.

The Hotel: Writer's Cut

I've been walking for what seems like hours. The man at the bus depot said the hotel is on the corner of 34th and San Dimas. It's hot and muggy. The streets are dead, the only person I've seen for the last mile is a vagabond sleeping on bus stop bench. The poor guy, but at least he's getting some sleep.

"How much further?" I ask myself wishing that someone could answer my question. Sadly, the only reply I get is the bead of sweat falling off my forehead and hitting the pavement. I flick my left wrist to adjust my watch and look at my brand new Seiko Julie had got me for my birthday.

"Quarter-to-midnight" I think to myself. I stop to look around, get my bearings. When I feel a cool wind blow against the back of my ear. I quickly turn around and smile to myself.

"I'm here." I muttered to myself.

I pushed open the wood and glass door with the word Hotel written on it. Strange, I've never seen a hotel with out a name on it. It must be old. The air is thin, dusty and slightly moldy. Like an old attic with boxes of Mom's old clothes that she hasn't worn since her wedding. It's hard to breath. I walk up to the front desk and ring the bell, the bell reverberates off the wood floor and is loud enough to wake the dead. I wait.

A man in his mid-sixties waddles out the door behind the counter, he's old, he's probably been working here his entire life. His clothes are quite tattered, his pipe is cracked but his glasses are exquisite not a scratch or imperfection on them.

"What can I do you for?" He asks me.

"I need a room, just for the night." I answer him.

The old man looks at me through his crystal clear glasses and smirks. He drops his right hand under the counter and pulls out the registration book. This book has been with this hotel since day one as the book is nearly full, he turns to the last page and points to the first empty spot.

"Sign here, please." He says.

I look down at the spot, pen in hand and chuckle as I notice the set of numbers followed by a line, "One-fourteen." I laugh to myself "How fitting. It must be that hot in here"

"I'm sure it's, sir" The man behind the counter says. I don't know why but he gives me the heebie-jeebies. The sooner I can get to my room and away from him the better. The walls seem to have ears, I feel extremely paranoid as if I'm being watched. No, not watched -- judged. I feel as if this place is more then a hotel. I'm just tired, that's all.

"Three-fifty, please" The old man behind the desk says.

"Of course" I reply as I reach in my back pocket for my wallet.

"Do you need assistance with your luggage" He asks and he lightly taps the little bell on the desk.

Luggage? Is this guys for real? I have one suitcase, everything I own is in this bag, but it's not very heavy. Nothing in here is important though, the only thing of value is the family photo we took last Christmas.

I reach down to pick up my bag when I notice there's someone new here with us. A skinny man, mid thirties. He's a working man, worked every day of his life and has got nothing to show for it except is ill-fitting suit and his scratched up glasses. I feel a great sadness for him, I imagined he only owns the one suit, he probably bought when he cashed he first paycheck. That's the high life, new suit, shave and a haircut. Too bad the poor sap hasn't been able to afford a new suit since then, it is in immaculate condition. Not a thread out of place, rip or tear in sight. I can't say the same for his glasses however, they are so scratched I can't make out the color of his eyes. I decide to call him Gangly.

I hand him my bag and two quarters and say "Here ya' go Mac. Maybe this'll help you get a new pair of glasses. Perhaps as shiny as your boss's"

"Gee, thanks Mister. But we all can't have nice things like that" He says.

"Sometimes..." The man behind the counter says as he takes a puff on his pipe "you have to sell things in order to get nice things."

He turns around and walks in to the back room and says "Room 237" and vanishes in to the dark room in the back.

I follow Gangly and my bag upstairs to room 237. The hallway seems like it goes on forever in either direction, I can't tell exactly how far it is, but I don't want to find out. Gangly opens up the door and sets my bag down and walks out and down the hall. I walk to the window and I look out to the city, only it's not there. There's no lights, no cars, I can only make out a few twinkling stars in the sky. I feel all alone.

The night stand to my left has a picture frame face down. I pick up the picture, the sepia tone photograph is of Gangly and the Clerk. This is strange, I take it out of it's cheap wooden frame and examine the date on the back.

"August second, Nineteen-twenty" I say out loud "What?"

What's going on here, these men have not aged in thirty years this can't be possible, maybe it's mistake? It has to be. What is going on here? Why do I feel so dizzy. I need a drink. I need to sleep, yeah sleep. I'll wake up and I'll be home. I lay my head on the pillow. I feel my eyes getting heavy, I feel my self falling asleep.

As I fall asleep I hear people from the next room talking.

"Doctor!" a woman shouts "We're losing him!"

Oh great, someone left their TV on. My eyes can no longer stay open, I feel myself float off in to sleep

I feel like I'll never leave this place.